I should have believed she was in on it from the start, but I forced myself to believe differently, trying to see the good in her. . . and each time I failed to do that, I blamed it on the house’s poor lighting.
Ville heard my inner turmoil, reading my mind like the devil he was, no doubt. “I know she fed you bullshit about being the first. Being saved. A friend for Woodrow. I know you still don’t want to believe otherwise.”
Woodrow watched, silently, jaw ticking as his eyes moved to his father.
“But you’ve met my wife, Jolie. Do you really think she cares if he has a friend. Do you think she cares about him, at all?”
“She should.” My eyes shifted to their unloved son, and he felt the pull, moving his gaze to me. Feeling love through me. Love that allowed him to stay present. . .stay with me.
“She doesn’t. She doesn’t care about anyone but herself and me. . . I’d like to believe that, at least.”
Ville took a swig from a glass at his side—a fancy decanter, not the usual whatever he grabbed first, which often had a cartoon character fading on the glass.
The fancy stuff was out for tonight. . . in the form of glasses, at least.
I had no idea why he bothered for a crowd who lacked anything of true value—like manners and respect.
Sylvia was back, placing more bottles on the table. Some whisky, some rum, and one of Wynter’s wines—a drink that would no doubt need replacing. If I’d learned anything about this man and the woman he was married to—one thing that wasn’t a lie, like everything else that came out of their mouths—it was that they both had drinking problems.
The liquid in the bottles always decreased overnight.
“Did Wynter ever tell you how we met?” Ville asked, unscrewing the cap from the strongest of his drinks, before swigging from the bottle, ignoring his fancy glass.
I no longer cared, and I was sure my expression told him as much. And I was almost convinced that’s why he continued to drone on and tell me.
“I was a psychologist in training, close to getting my degree. I had it all figured out. A job in the city, less than an hour’s drive from here. And I took a vacation, and I methim. . .a man as beautiful as he was evil.”
I listened to Ville’s story, having no idea who thishimwas, but I didn’t ask. I let him continue, half wondering what could have happened to so badly corrupt a man who started out wanting to help people. What could have turned him into the complete opposite?
“He was drinking rum, no coke. Sitting at a bar alone on the outskirts of Orlando, as was I. . . some vacation.” Ville snorted, inhaling the cigar he shoved into his mouth as he lit up. “He was flicking through photos. He told me the toddlers and baby in the photo were his children, playing in a large yard, flowers surrounding a fancy swing set. It puzzled me why he’d show a complete stranger his children, and then it hit me. He didn’t care about them. . . not the way most parents did. The two tiny girls, cuddling with their mother, weren’t the center of the photo. . . weren’t the center of his world. But he had eyes for his eldest. His son. . . if you know what I mean.
“He asked what brought me out here tonight, to a bar that no one really wanted to be in, and I flipped the question. He told me he was leaving with the barmaid, but she didn’t know it yet. I told him she was a lucky girl, because even as a straight man, I had to acknowledge the man sitting at my side didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen before, and he didn’t sound like anything I’d heard before, either, with his fancy French accent.” A puff of smoke billowed around, causing me to cough. Causing Woodrow to choke. Ville went back to his story, disregarding us both. “I told him I was out to celebrate nearing the end of my training, and he laughed in my face over the fact that I was there to do it alone.”
Ville took another swig, memories coming to life with each drink.
“He told me that he had an opening for a psychologist in the business he ran, but he wouldn’t say what it was. . . not until days later when I met him at a warehouse nearby. He finally told me of his business. Told me to have an open mind, and if I didn’t, then he’d probably have to kill me. I knew he wasn’t fucking kidding. The pretty ones are always the evilest.” He winked in the direction of hisson, whose eyes had lowered to a place of shame.
“He isn’t evil,” I corrected with a harsh tone. “He’s unwell. And you had abilities to help him. To make his life better.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Ville’s lips crashed against the bottle again.
“You. You are what is evil.” My anger levitated me from my seat.
“Please, Jolie, are you really telling me that you accept him for what he is? A monster.”
“He isn’t.” My eyes flicked to Woodrow, who was still looking down. “You’re not. You’re not a monster. You’re loving, caring, and sweet—”
I was interrupted just as his pretty eyes met mine, warmth still behind them.
“He is, and you fucking know it. I heard you crying as he forced his way inside your cunt and fucked you while you begged him to stop.”
“Ah, fuck. . .” Muffled words fell from Woodrow’s lips, and just like that, his eyes lowered, in shame. In horror. In disgust. And the belief that he was all his father claimed, was settling, despite its unwelcome, in his veins.
I spun back around. “As I said. You are the monster. You have no excuses. You are just evil. You watched—”
“And he acted. . .”
“And you could have stopped it. You could have stopped it all before I even came along. He’s tainted by trauma and mentally unwell, but what you are, that is the definition of evil.” I was closer now, close enough to spit my venom on him as I regarded him. “You failed as a father. As a human.”
